


The Year of Non-Magical Thinking

by whiskyandwildflowers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little angst, Angst, Attempts at humour, BAMF Ginny Weasley, Clubbing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is riding the struggle bus, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Pining, Rimming, aggressive use of italics, blissfully ignoring the epilogue since 2007, draco is good at muggle things ok, draco is oblivious because he's so focused, laissez les bons temps rouler, lana del rey is the ultimate sad boi music, no penetrative sex because Harry isn't ready to take that step yet he's working on it, rushed handjobs, tequila tuesday, the internet is for porn, we're all riding the struggle bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 16:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15247614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyandwildflowers/pseuds/whiskyandwildflowers
Summary: "I don't know what I'm going to do, Potter. I'll think of something. So will you. But this is my journey to self-actualization," Draco managed to smirk. "You can fuck off and get your own."





	The Year of Non-Magical Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a play on Joan Didion's book "The Year of Magical Thinking". This is a modern au so just go with the references.  
> The subtitle of this is "Draco's Journey to Self-Actualization", so do with that what you will.
> 
> Thank you so much to hogwartsfirebolt and slythrns-heir for giving this a beta, and also letting me work through my personal version of "Draco in the Muggle World".

It was a week after his trial and Draco Malfoy was a (semi) free man.

“I’m going to fix this.” Draco stood with Pansy and Blaise and stared at the Manor. “I mean, not the Manor, obviously.” The first thing he was going to do was sell this dilapidated nightmare and all of the horrors rotting away inside. Draco’s stomach rolled uneasily. As if he could ever step foot in there again. And anyway, his mother and father had gone on the run like they were a pair of vigilante teenagers instead of a couple of fascist middle-aged disasters, leaving Draco to pick up the pieces. He was still appallingly rich, so there was that at least. “I’m going to fix this _situation_ I’m in.”

“Draco, I love you, but you’re absolutely fucking mental if you think anything about this situation is going to be okay. You’re free but—look, it’s not as if everyone in Diagon is suddenly going to just—” Pansy trailed off and squeezed his hand. Blaise gave Draco a skeptical look that he absolutely did not appreciate. It was June and the breeze was tempting and lazy. It felt like the weather was beautiful just to spite him.

“Pans, I am going to fix this the same way I’ve managed to muddle through this insane implosion that has been my life thus far. With books. Research. Just... figuring this shit out, yeah?” He hated how he’d ended that pronouncement with such uncharacteristic inelegance.

Draco had done everything from making those juvenile—yet extremely hilarious—Potter Stinks buttons, to fixing that ghastly vanishing cabinet through study and discipline. Dealing with what was left of his macabre and depressing life would be no different. He might not have his wand anymore, but he still had his mind and his will to live, and that was better than any of the magic he’d ever had swirling around at his fingertips. He was going to learn how to live like a Muggle, undo all of the lies he’d been told, and be left alone. He was never going to come back to the wizarding world and that was that.

And besides, Pansy and Blaise still had their wands, so everything was going to be incredibly fine.

* * *

At 11 years old, Muggleborns from all over England were plucked from their homes and dropped into an entirely new world that they knew absolutely nothing about. They were just supposed to accept that magic existed, and this was their lives now. If a bunch of snot-nosed preteens could learn and flourish in a completely unfamiliar territory, so could Draco. He was definitely smarter than they were. Probably.

It’s not an easy thing, admitting you were wrong and that your entire life had been a series of unfortunate lies and misinformation. Since Draco had never been wrong before, it was an entirely unfamiliar and unwelcome situation. But since it was likely that wizarding London was over for him, Draco needed a new life plan. He could be a filthy rich layabout, but that wasn’t exactly his style. The layabout part, anyway. He’d always been rich, but he’d never been idle.

The prospect of diving into a new challenge and smothering himself with knowledge vibrated under his skin in a wholly terrifying and thrilling way. He was going to learn everything there was to learn about Muggles. He was going to live in their world, and eat their food, and walk among them like a magizoologist tracking the mating rituals of Nundus. It felt dangerous and raw and satisfying in a way that Draco hadn’t felt in years. Not since—never mind.

* * *

Figuring out the exchange rate of Galleons to the Pounds that Muggles used was child’s play. Honestly. Money was money, and Draco had a lot of it.

In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to sell the Manor right away. A childish part of him hoped his parents would come back eventually and take responsibility for the choices they’d made instead of faffing around without him like the innocents they weren’t.

Draco did the next best thing and, through the family solicitor, purchased a perfectly ostentatious flat in Muggle London. It was brand new, memory free, and deliciously expensive. Draco was trying his best, but he wasn’t a martyr. And while he had absolutely no idea how to use any of the devices and appliances in his new flat, it was his.  
  
“Well done, old man,” Blaise said as he surveyed the living room and clapped a warm, broad hand down on Draco’s shoulder. Blaise and Pansy were moving in. It was under the guise of wanting a fresh start, but they’d taken to looking at Draco like he was a sad and crumbling porcelain doll. Maybe if they saw him every day, they would go back to looking at him like their cunning and resourceful leader the way he was completely sure they had before.

“This is brill, darling!” Pansy ran her fingertips along a windowsill and looked out over London. The walls of the flat were bright and white, the windows large, and the floors gleaming. Draco had purchased his flat furnished and there was not a family heirloom in sight, which made him feel untethered in a way he hadn’t expected.

“There’s a ‘but’ coming there somewhere, I’m sure,” Draco said, fixing his face into a half-hearted sneer.

“No ‘but’, you snarky bitch. I really do think this is brilliant! You’re handling this a lot better than any of us expected you would.” Pansy was looking at him with an expression that was earnest-adjacent, and it looked horrifyingly wrong on her.

“The lack of faith in my ability to turn my life around is incredibly insulting.”

“I forgot what an insufferable swot you are, that’s all.” Pansy’s expression shifted from earnest-adjacent to completely catty, which was far more comforting.

“Yes, yes, it’s a gift,” Draco said, waving his hand at her impatiently. He wasn’t in the mood to get emotional, and he rather wanted to save the opportunity for mushy Hufflepuffian comfort for another time when he needed it more. Soft moments with Pansy and Blaise were rare and he only capitalized on them when absolutely necessary. Draco turned to Blaise, who was so uncharacteristically quiet it was unnerving him.

“Blaise, I need you to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow. Exchange more Galleons and pick up some books for me at Flourish and Blotts. I have a list.” Draco decided that settling into a more familiar leadership role would be good for morale. Blaise rolled his eyes so hard that Draco was sure some musculature had detached.

“I’m going to do this because you’re my friend and have obviously suffered a lot of _trauma_ in the last little while, but I’m not your errand boy.” Draco hated the way Blaise said trauma. Draco wasn’t a victim, if anything he’d been—well, now it wasn’t important what he’d been, in any case.

“I told you this was all going to be fine!” Draco announced grandly, choosing to ignore every loaded _look_ shared between Pansy and Blaise. He had a new flat, he had a new life, and everything was going according to his (extremely meticulous and well-researched) plan.

* * *

 Blaise having the horn for Ginny Weasley was not part of the plan. He’d spotted her at Flourish and Blotts while picking up Draco’s books ( _Muggles for the Magicked_ , _Technology for the Trollish_ , and _So You’ve Lost Your Wand: 8609 Things to Know About Living Without Magic_ ). Blaise had then proceeded to follow her around Diagon Alley until she’d hexed him behind Madam Malkin’s. And then, improbably, she’d agreed to go to dinner with him. It was clear to Draco that she just wanted to hex Blaise again and this would give her some time to plan, but Blaise looked so smug and punchable that he obviously hadn’t realized this yet.

“What the actual fuck, Blaise? Is it entirely impossible for you to think with your brain instead of your cock for once? You literally had two jobs. Two stops to make!” Draco knew he was bordering on hysterics, but this whole situation felt so treasonous and wrong that he thought he might have to go lie down for the rest of the afternoon. They were standing in the kitchen trying to figure out the air conditioning. Muggle London was _hot_. Every one of Draco’s shirts went nearly transparent from sweat in a matter of minutes, and Pansy was rubbing ice cubes all over herself and making a mess all over the polished concrete floor.

“I’m going to agree with Draco. This is appalling. What’s next, pubbing with the Gryffindors? That’ll be quite a laugh, I’m sure! Maybe Longbottom will give me a look at his sword.” Pansy’s eyes turned slightly feral at her last sentiment, which Draco would have to circle back to.

“It’s just dinner,” Blaise drawled, “but I’m sure it will be enough to ensure that I’m the Chosen One in her life”. Draco thought Blaise’s casual tone of voice was a bit laughable for a man who had just made a terrible Potter-related pun and had also followed the Weaslette around Diagon for 30 minutes.

“This is the worst thing you could have possibly done,” said Draco, snatching an ice cube from Pansy and rubbing it over his forehead. A cold drop trickled into his eye and he winced. This was all too much.

* * *

The worst thing Blaise could have possibly done happened six weeks later. Draco came back to the flat with his brand-new laptop computer to find Girl Weasley in Blaise’s shirt and her underwear eating a bag of Draco’s black truffle and sea salt crisps at his kitchen counter. She turned and gave him a grin that was positively sharklike.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for this! Hi, Ferretface.” Draco was sure that she would have clapped her hands in delight if she hadn’t been preoccupied with the bag of crisps at hand. He knew vaguely that she and Blaise had been spending time together since their first dinner. Blaise had come home with a mark from a stinging hex on one arm, and her floo address written on the other. It was a match made in the seventh circle of hell, purely to torture Draco.

“She-Weasel. The pleasure is all yours.” Draco was proud of himself for not dropping the computer and staying cool in the face of what was a horrific nightmare of a situation. The air conditioning made him so much more aware of the sweat beading around his hairline, and his stomach rolled at the sight of her.

He had spent weeks shut away, reading and taking notes, and making lists. He had spent weeks exploring his neighborhood, learning how hot asphalt smelled and learning where he could go to buy gin. And he had spent weeks ignoring his ache for wizarding London and his shame and embarrassment and disgrace. And now those feelings were coming back in a rush, thanks to one ill-mannered ginger in a Burberry button down sitting in his kitchen.

“Come on, Malfoy. What do you have there? Let me see! Blaise told me about your project.” Weaselette made little finger quotes when she said project and then patted the stool next to her, inviting him to sit as if this wasn’t his own fucking kitchen. “Pansy is out getting her nails done and Blaise went to go get more snacks. Your selection is abysmal! You basically only had cocktail olives, did you know that? Rich people are the worst.”

“Look, Weasley, I—” Draco started, but she cut him off immediately.

“First of all, call me Ginny. I’m having it off with your best friend, and the way you say _Weasley_ reminds me of Ron. Second, I still think you’re a bloody arsehole dickbag idiot. But Harry—...Harry spoke for you, and Blaise told me that you’re never coming back to wizarding London, and I know Luna wants to talk to you, and I know your parents fucked off like two wanky tosspots. So, I still sort of hate you, but I also don’t want to? I’m too tired of it all. And your flat is so flash, and I never want to leave. So.” She said everything so bluntly that Draco was having a hard time processing it. He could see why Blaise was so obsessed with her. She had a way of saying things that would push you off guard, but also make you thankful that she was bothering to talk to you at all. Draco sat down on the stool next to her and set the computer down on the countertop.

“Oh, I’ve seen one of these! A Mactop! Hermione has one, it’s just the craziest thing!” Ginny slid the box to her side of the counter and started opening the packaging. She took out the silver computer to examine it.

“It’s called a Macbook. Or laptop. One or the other. Apparently, these are very necessary if you don’t have any magic. Or aren’t using it. Whatever.” Draco felt wrongfooted and nervous. He was normally such a charming conversationalist.

“They are so great! One time, we bought an inflatable swimming pool for Harry’s house. Only fits me, Luna and Harry, and not even that. There’s all kinds of porn on there too, which is what I think the Muggles use it for most, personally. Hermione got pretty offended because she’s using hers for uni, but there’s just so much more porn on the intranets than anything else”. Draco choked a little every time she said porn and bit back his visceral need to correct Ginny’s use of “intranets”.

“I didn’t buy this for pornography. Circe’s tits. It’s for research,” Draco said tersely. Ginny snorted at him and rolled her eyes.

“Sure, Malfoy. Whatever.” Draco was mercifully saved from continuing this conversation by the person who had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Blaise strode in, levitating bags from Fortnum and Mason in front of him.

“Ugh, Blaise. What is this fancy crap? I told you to just find a Tesco!” Ginny looked disparagingly at what Blaise had brought in. Draco thought it all looked grand but decided against mentioning it.

“I was trying to woo you, Gin,” Blaise said and grabbed her hand. “I’m a very romantic man, as you’ll come to find out.” She rolled her eyes but flushed a bit. Draco suppressed the urge to gag and ignored the spike of jealousy in his stomach at their easy back-and-forth. Blaise was lucky he was so handsome, because his attempts at charm were abysmal.

“Leave that here for Lord Fancypants and let’s go out!” Ginny said laughing, as she dragged Blaise away from the counter and towards his bedroom. Draco tried very hard to squash his indignancy at Ginny’s jokes made at his expense. She really was just teasing, but he’d never been _teased_ before. He was striving for distance, and here she was throwing everything he was trying to leave behind back into his orbit in this crass and blazing way of hers.

It was all so surreal. Ginny Weasley was hating him but trying not to and talking about pornography in his kitchen. And casually mentioning Granger and Potter and Lovegood as if he knew them. Which...he did, but not in any way that could be considered casual. Ginny Weasley was having sex with Blaise in his flat and making fun of Fortnum and Mason and knowing but not quite knowing about Muggle things too. It was so baffling. Draco wanted to be her friend a little bit, and it made him want to set himself and the whole flat on fire.

* * *

Computers were so amazing, Draco almost forgot about how much he missed magic. Almost.

He had spent actual _days_ in front of the screen, doing something called Googling. You could learn about anything you wanted. He read some pages about Ancient Egypt, and then learned how to poach an egg. There were _videos_. Draco loved the videos. They couldn’t talk back to you, which was frustrating if you had a question, but some were funny, some were educational, and some were long and called films. There were thousands of those, and they were making new ones all the time.

Draco had a new Muggle routine in the mornings that he liked very much. Every day, he would walk to a Starbucks and get an iced vanilla latte. The barista, Louise as per her nametag, knew his order by heart. He was a _regular_ now. Draco Malfoy was a regular at a Muggle coffee shop.

He would either stay and do some work on his computer—today he was tackling literature and making a list of novels to read based off of a typical Muggle school curriculum—or he would read a newspaper and look out for interesting museum exhibits. Sometimes Pansy would come, but she usually said that the hot weather and nature were bad for her skin. Draco knew she was going to Diagon in secret, and it was extremely annoying that she was trying to hide it from him. They were both secretive by nature, but not usually with each other. Especially not since everything had gone completely mental for them.

As for Blaise, he’d gone completely round the twist for Ginny, and usually spent most his days with her, watching her play Quidditch and fetching things for her. He always invited Draco and Pansy out with them, and with Ginny’s friends, but Draco wouldn’t and couldn’t. Pansy had gone a few times but didn’t mention it. Ginny had even, genuinely, invited him to Potter’s birthday party, which was just a whole new level of insanity that Draco couldn’t handle. He had soundly refused and said that there was no way that her ex-boyfriend, his sworn enemy and the human equivalent of an impulse-buy, would appreciate his presence. Ginny had laughed so hard Draco was almost concerned for her health.

He was starting to feel very much on his own again. Draco knew that giving up all things magical wasn’t easy. Merlin, how he knew it wasn’t easy. But he was doing it, and he’d thought that Blaise and Pansy would have tried a bit harder too. It felt like they didn’t know how to talk to him anymore, and were still walking on eggshells around him. They were all drifting apart, which allegedly happens when you grow up, but he didn’t feel all that grown. Not really. Draco knew they’d thought this would be a phase, and that they’d be laughing about his Muggle experiment over Ogden’s Finest after about a week. He couldn’t blame them—Blaise and Pansy hadn’t done what he did, and just being sorted Slytherin was hardly enough for a complete shunning from their old life. He’d thought that taking complete control of his life and becoming a _better person_ would make him feel...better, but instead, he felt lonelier than ever. He was _good_ at learning how to live a Muggle life. He was _great_ at it, even. But it wasn’t enough.

And just as Draco was starting to feel very sorry for himself indeed, Potter decided to crash his way back into Draco’s reality without any subtlety. In fact, he’d very nearly literally crashed into the Starbucks window.

Potter must have spotted him from the sidewalk. Although, Merlin only knew what Potter was even doing in Draco’s neighborhood. He was so unkempt that he looked beyond bizarre among the neat houses and their well-coiffed inhabitants. Potter stared at him through the glass, walking slowly towards the window until he bumped into it, blinking dazedly. Draco hadn’t wanted to break into a sprint so badly in a very, very long time.

Apparently, Potter suddenly decided to remember how doors worked and walked over to come inside. Draco started shoving his laptop and newspaper into his bag and grabbed his drink, his fingers slipping on the condensation. Potter was right in front of him, running his hands through his entirely ridiculous hair, and shifting his weight from foot to foot like some sort of crup with too much pent-up energy.

“Er—hi.” It was a truly Potteresque greeting. Draco’s heart was beating against his ribs and he had to work to gather up a proper attitude, ignoring the inconvenience of having Potter sprung on him like this.

“Potter. Do excuse me, but I must be going, and I’m sure you have to go catch dark wizards, or kiss babies, or you have an appointment at the ratty trainer store. Let’s never do this again sometime.” Draco made a move to go around Potter, but Potter blocked him.

“Malfoy, Ginny gave me your address and I was coming to see you. I wanted —er, she told me what you’ve been up to. I’ve seen Zabini and Parkinson. You never come with them and I—. Fuck, I just want to talk to you, yeah?” Potter didn’t sound nervous, exactly. Maybe frustrated. Draco had absolutely nothing that he wanted to talk about with Potter. There was no way a conversation like that could go well. What was Draco supposed to _say_ to this? He felt shaky and hot and desperate in the way he always felt around Potter.

“I don’t see how we can possibly have anything to talk about, Potter. I thanked you for what you said at my trial. I’ve stayed out of your way! I haven’t been back to the Manor or spoken with my parents, or even brewed a Pepperup Potion in months. I’m done with that, and I’ve been done with you for a while. Kindly fuck off!” Draco hoped his tone had the level of haughty superiority he was going for, rather than the level of anxiety and frustration that he felt.

Potter’s eyes darted around the Starbucks. It was late morning, so the lunchtime rush hadn’t started yet. Draco had been the only one in there besides two mothers in expensive-looking exercise clothes with prams sitting in the far corner. “Malfoy, I have your wand. I just want to give it back to you! You don’t have to be such a fucking arsehole about it, Jesus!” Potter growled at him in a low voice, and Draco suddenly felt aware of every drop of blood flowing through his veins, and every single breath was laboured.

“Keep it,” Draco replied as smoothly as he could muster. He bumped Potter’s shoulder and pushed past him out into the humid morning. He walked quickly back towards his flat, his shirt sticking to his back. Draco wasn’t sure if it was the weather making him sweat, or his brief interlude with Potter. He certainly had no intentions of thinking about that for too long. For all that Draco was trying to do, to change his ways and live a new life and be left alone, Potter brought him right back to Hogwarts in a matter of seconds, making him feel childish and inadequate and petty. How dare he. How dare Potter come and upend his life and act like what he’d said—what he wanted from Draco—wasn’t completely devastating.

Of _course_ Draco wanted his wand back. He loved that wand. He’d gone with his father to Ollivander’s and it had _chosen_ him. And his father had been so proud of him, back when that was basically the only thing that registered to Draco. A load of crap that was now, all things considered. But he _couldn’t_ have it back. He just couldn't.

Draco flung his front door open, strode into the kitchen and braced himself on the sink. Tears, hot and angry, burned in his eyes and blurred his surroundings together. Magic raced through his veins, and Draco couldn’t stop it when a vase accidentally exploded on the countertop, sending peonies, and water and crystal flying all over the kitchen.

Pansy burst into the room and looked around frantically. “Draco, what the—darling what’s happened, what’s going on?” She walked over to him cautiously and put her hand on his back where the fabric was soaked through. He could feel her nails grazing along his spine. He didn’t say anything, but let her stroke his back in silence. This was the moment of Hufflepuffian comfort he had been waiting for, precisely when he’d needed it.

* * *

Ginny Weasley was a menace to polite society, but she had absolutely been right about the pornography.

Draco’s encounter with Potter had left him angry and riled up in a way that he hadn’t been in ages. Only Potter could get to him like this—like a heat rash spreading over his skin—hot and itchy and annoying.

In the times BE—Before Experiment—Draco would fly. He would fly on the Quidditch pitch or on the Manor grounds until his fingers were numb on his broomstick and his face was windburned and raw. He tried to find the Muggle equivalent, which he’d concluded was either jogging or driving an automobile. But, he didn’t have a driver’s license, or a death wish, so the automobile was out. Draco tried approximately four minutes of jogging before he vetoed that too.

There was one more activity that might help him relax, which Draco hadn’t had time for in ages.

Draco brought his laptop into his bedroom and locked the door. Blaise was with Ginny and Lovegood shopping for Lovegood’s new owl or kneazle or something, and Pansy was getting a spray tan. The flat was empty, but Draco was not taking any chances. Flipping open the computer, Draco Googled “sex”. Disappointingly, this didn’t lead to pornography exactly, mostly just articles about the mechanics of the whole situation, and articles about _intimacy_ that Draco thought might make him feel more depressed than stimulated.

After a little more trial and error, Draco finally found himself where he wanted to be. He just had to be a little more...specific with his search terms. This was much better than a crusty and weathered copy of _Quidditch Stars Stripped_ which had been passed around the Slytherin dorm since likely before even Snape had gone to Hogwarts, and Draco was determined not to think about _that_.

Sex, to Draco, was a little bit of an abstract concept. He’d never had it, for starters. And he was entirely interested in men. Draco gathered that this could be an issue in the Muggle world, so his trek into the great unknown hadn’t included meeting someone yet. He’d just left a world where people were going to hate him on sight, and although he very much deserved it that case, he didn’t want to give Muggles any reason quite yet.

But now, in the comfort of his room and sitting only in his pants on the bed, he clicked on a video titled “blond and dark-haired men devour each other” which sounded alarming but really was just a euphemism for a lot of oral sex. He really really liked the contrast between the blond hair and dark. Opposites coming together. The men were handsome enough, and it seemed like they were having fun. Draco slid his hand through his pubic hair, pulled his cock out of his underwear and started stroking it a little, in time with the awful music in the video.

Draco opened another video tab to “dark-haired twink has the ride of his life” and stroked himself roughly. He snapped his wrist the way he liked it, rubbing his thumb across the head of his cock. Eventually, he brought himself off, come splashing hotly across his belly, as the young dark-haired man in the video came, cock untouched, while skillfully riding another man’s prick. Draco thought this was a tad unrealistic, but it was much better than any magazine, and Draco wasn’t in the mood to think critically about his pornography consumption.

* * *

In late September, Draco was finally ready to Go Out. He’d been out loads, in a general sense, but he hadn’t been _social_. Pansy begged him to go dancing with her and Blaise. No Ginny, Blaise had promised.

The bar was dimly lit and smelled like a mix of vodka, sweat, and laundry soap. It was, allegedly, a popular spot for university students that Blaise had come across. The beat of the music seemed to thrum in time with Draco’s heartbeat, and as he looked around at the people dancing—men with men, women with women, everyone with everyone—he felt a slight sense of ease wash over him.

They sipped gin and tonics at a small table to the side of the action, and Pansy leaned against Draco, smiling brightly in a way he hadn’t seen for a while. “See! This is amazing. You can’t fuck up a gin and tonic, and the music is fun,” Pansy said. She shimmied a little and smirked at a bloke across the bar wearing some sort of band t-shirt.

“I’m going outside for a second,” Blaise said weirdly, and left Pansy and Draco to sip their drinks and watch the crowd. Pansy stared after Blaise for a moment, and then grabbed Draco’s wrist. Her hand was hot and slippery against his skin.

“Come on! Let’s go dance!” She bellowed into his ear. “Remember how much fun we had at Theo’s after we dipped into the elf-made wine?” Pansy winked and dragged him towards the throng of bodies writhing to the beat. The lights flashed blue and purple and made Pansy’s lip gloss shimmer. Draco’s limbs were loose because of the gin, and he was more amenable than usual to Pansy’s enthusiasm. He grabbed her waist and she threw her head back into a laugh, dark hair flying all over the place. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had fun like this—genuine fun in a public place. It wasn’t intentional, but Draco had the realization that maybe he’d been denying himself fun. Sure, learning to ride a bicycle or how to cook coq au vin was fun, but it wasn’t _fun_ like this. The soles of his shoes stuck to the floor, to whatever combination of alcohol had spilled there.

After three songs, Draco was ready for another drink. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair and made a move to turn around back towards the bar. Pansy gave him a slightly panicked look, and that’s when he realized. Pansy and Blaise were dirty fucking traitors and he needed new friends. He bet that his new Muggle friends, when he made them, would never be as appallingly cruel as this.

Blaise was at a table near where they were dancing, chatting with Ginny. Lovegood was there, and, horrifically, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, and _Potter_. Potter was staring at him with a mix of what seemed to be confusion, determination, and frustration, while everyone else was acting completely normally. And that was the weirdest part of it all, in Draco’s opinion. Obviously Blaise and Pansy’s new best friends had all known Draco would be there. None of them seemed overly shocked and surprised. Draco was the only one caught off guard without an exit strategy beyond literally legging it to the exit.

Pansy gripped his bicep, nails cutting into his skin. “Please. Just come on. I’m sorry.” It was the first time she’d ever apologized to him. He knew she probably meant it, but it gave him no comfort at all.

“What am I even going to fucking say to any of them? Why did you possibly think this was a good idea? Fucking hell, Pans!” Draco felt trapped and his fight or flight response—thank you, Google—was kicking into high gear. He wrenched his arm from Pansy’s grip and practically ran to a side exit. He wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t spending the evening with a group of people who hated him, for good reason. They should still be hating Pansy too. It was beyond logic and comprehension. He couldn’t imagine for one second that they would _want_ to spend any time with him.

Draco pushed outside, the air cooling his skin. He took huge gulping breaths and tried to slow down his brain and his heart and everything for a second. He slumped against the brick of the side of the building and slid down until he was sitting on the sidewalk. He didn’t even care that he was likely wrecking his brand-new trousers he’d bought especially for this important evening of socialization. It had all gone to hell in a handbasket anyway—what was one more thing ruined?

Draco heard the door open, and Ginny stepped out. Blaise and Pansy were probably too ashamed to face him. Draco didn’t think Ginny had ever felt ashamed of anything in her entire life.

“It’s just me,” she said unnecessarily. “Don’t be such a wanker. Come back inside.” Ginny was never one to mince words. She slumped down into a squat next to him. “I know you’re surprised. It was the only way we could think to get you here. We’re sort of friends, yeah? Friend-adjacent. We’ve watched the entire series of _LOST_ together. That must count for something, right? You’re in a rough spot, and Harry’s in a rough spot, and we all just thought if maybe we started to try and move past everything that maybe it would all be okay? Somehow? I admit, it was a terribly thought out plan.”

“Move past everything?” Draco sputtered incredulously. “Weasley, there’s no _moving past_ what I’ve done. You and I might have gotten over our differences a bit because of this whole...forced proximity thing with Blaise, but what am I supposed to say to Granger? I was a prick to her for years. She was tortured in my _house_ by my _aunt_.” Draco stopped for a moment, sounding a little strangled. He took another deep breath and carried on. Ginny was being silent for once, letting him finish his thoughts, so he wanted to seize the opportunity.

“And Lovegood? She was held captive at the Manor for weeks! Longbottom is maybe the most decent person I’ve ever seen, and I spent literally years making his life hell at Hogwarts. And for what? So my father would be proud? Look how well that turned out for me. And don’t get me started on Potter. I can’t deal with that tonight.” Ginny looked like she was suppressing a bit of a smirk, but she let him carry on. “I’m just so fucking sorry for it all, and it isn’t enough.”

Draco stood up and brushed the dirt from his trousers. Ginny was giving him the oddest soft look now and he couldn’t handle it. Not from her. It was too close to pity and he’d been working too hard to avoid that. Anger was easier.

He walked to try and get a taxi at the front of the club, and Ginny didn’t follow him. Potter and Pansy came outside together—hell had apparently completely frozen over—and for a minute it looked like they were going to try and come over to him. Ginny said something that made them stop—a small moment of mercy. Draco got into a taxi and wished that he didn’t notice how fucking green Potter’s eyes were.

Life was extremely fucking awful.

* * *

By the second week of October, Draco learned about Nazis and his world imploded once again. How had nobody in his life heard about this? How had they not seen the absolutely glaring parallels?

That’s when Draco decided to write some letters. He wrote one to everyone he could think of. The one he wrote to Granger was the shortest. All it said was _I am so fucking sorry for everything._ And he didn’t want to go into all the details, but he hoped she knew what he meant.

He borrowed Pansy’s owl. After the bar debacle she and Blaise had been so uncharacteristically _nice_ to him, and even though the owl is magical, they don't say anything about him going off-plan for this.

Draco also discovered Lana del Rey during this time, and he thought they would get along well. She was so beautiful and sad and he sometimes thought he was also a little bit beautiful and sad, but was self-aware enough to know how pretentious and self-indulgent that sounded.

He printed off a bunch of information about Nazis and owled it to his parents without comment. He hadn’t heard from them in months, but he _needed_ them to know about this. The Hogwarts curriculum was seriously lacking—someone really needed to give it a review.

His parents never wrote him back.

Of course, it was soon after this day of revelations that Potter decided to make his grand entrance back into Draco’s reality, although it was expected this time. Draco was more surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, since Potter was maybe the most stubborn person on the planet.

He _had_ written to Potter too. Unsurprisingly, it was the hardest one to write. Draco didn’t have the time—or the courage, if he was being honest—to run through the myriad of things he felt guilty about and what he needed to explain, but he thought he had managed to get the highlights in there. He ended it with _you deserved better from so many people_. And that wasn’t quite an _I’m sorry_ , but Draco meant it that way.

Potter turned up on his doorstep with an expression like a thundercloud personified. He was wearing an enormous green jumper that looked homemade and was unraveling a little at the edges, a threadbare pair of trousers, and was clutching Draco’s note in his fist like he was afraid a stiff breeze would rip it from his fingers. _He could have just put it in his pocket,_ Draco thought uncharitably.

“What the bloody fuck is this, Malfoy? A goddamn note. I’ve been trying to talk to you for _months_ , and you run away every single time, and now, _now_ , you decide to send me this note. What are you playing at?” Potter had always been formidable when angry, and Draco can’t help that he likes him like this. The aura of power around someone who normally looked like they stumbled into your life by accident was intoxicating.

Draco stepped aside of the doorframe and gestured for Potter to come inside. This was the time to just get this over with, and Draco wasn’t going to run today. Maybe if he let Potter come in and yell a little, Draco could get back to his regularly scheduled exile slash exercise in self-improvement. “Do come in, Potter. I don’t fancy the neighbours thinking we’re having a domestic. Cheers.”

Draco delighted in the fact that Potter seemed taken a little off guard, which suited him since Draco had been on the receiving end of these dreadful _surprises_ for what seemed like an eternity.

Draco’s kitchen was where he wound up having all his most dramatic chats as of late, so it was fitting that he and Potter ended up in there as well. “Okay, Potter. Say your piece and then piss off. I said all I needed to say in _there_ ,” Draco said, gesturing to the note still being strangled in Potter’s grip.

“I—you—look—” Potter had lost all momentum since coming into the flat. Before Draco could start to feel too smug about the whole thing, Potter reached back into his trousers and pulled out Draco’s wand. He laid it on the gleaming counter top, and looked at Draco expectantly. Draco’s mouth had never been drier, and he was painfully aware of his heart beating rapidly in his chest. “Malfoy, I just want you to have this back. I can’t keep it anymore. It isn’t right, and I just want to be done with it.”

“Potter, I told you I don’t _want_ it back. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it. Keep it. Chuck it. Snap it and throw the bits off the top of Big Sodding Ben. I don’t fucking care at this point! I just—I just can’t have it here.” Draco is surprised he can manage to get the words out, even if they were a little less steady than he would have liked.

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy. I don’t want your wand either. It has bad memories for me too, or had you forgotten? You’re not the only one with shit. This isn’t _hard_  just for you. I can’t _look_ at this anymore.” Potter’s voice was cracking, and he looked like he wanted to burst into tears and punch Draco in the face simultaneously. “Just, please deal with this. Merlin knows you’re not dealing with anything else.”

“Not _dealing_ with anything else? Not dealing. Potter, all I’ve been doing is _dealing_. I’ve been dealing with the fact that most people I’ve ever known either hate me, or are dead. I’m dealing with the fact that everything I was brought up to know was an absolute fucking _lie_. I’m dealing with the fact that even though my parents were largely responsible for a good chunk of general crap in my life, they’ve fucked off and I’m left to keep _dealing_ on my own.” Draco stopped to take a breath. He knew that his face must be red, and he knew that he looks a little pointier when he’s really upset, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“And the absolute worst part of the whole thing is that in the end, I had some choices. They were mostly shit, but I had a few. And I was still a fucking idiot about it. So.” Draco paused. “Don't you _dare_ say that I’m not dealing with it. You, and Blaise and Pansy, and everyone else who miraculously seems to just be able to get over it can piss right off. I’m doing the best I can. I’m doing _all_ I can.” Draco was breathing heavily now, and he stopped to run a hand through his now damp hair.

“Malfoy—I… Look, I don’t know how to talk to everybody either. At the best of times, I didn’t. And now I really don’t. The fact that our groups have overlapped, and everyone is suddenly _mates_ or something is just the most confusing thing. And Ron and Hermione are doing their own kind of thing—” Potter stopped to take a breath. “Maybe everyone is just too tired to fight it, and too many people are gone so...safety in numbers? I don’t bloody know.” This was the most civilized conversation that Draco and Potter have ever had, and it was basically about the worst things that could have happened to two people. “Just...take the wand, yeah? Please.” Draco absolutely could not handle Potter saying _please_ to him like that. Or the way his eyes were just so, so green, and the way that his hand was picking at the frayed edges of his jumper. He couldn’t handle Potter at all.

“Potter, just go. Leave the wand and go,” Draco sighed. He hadn’t felt this scared and tired and this hot, frankly, in a really long time.

“What’re you going to do with it?” Potter asked cautiously, as if he was talking to a feral animal, which Draco thought was patently ridiculous since clearly Potter was the feral one here. “I don’t know what I’m doing about anything anymore, it feels like,” Potter continued, looking Draco square in the eyes.

“I don’t know what I'm going to do, Potter. I’ll think of something. So will you. But this is my journey to self-actualization,” Draco managed to smirk. “You can fuck off and get your own.”

* * *

It seemed that Potter’s journey kept bringing him into Draco’s orbit more than ever. Draco knew he should feel angrier at Blaise and Pansy for their betrayal and the bevy of Gryffindors they seemed to enjoy hanging around with, but mostly he was just angry at how _easy_ it seemed for them rather than the _Gryffindor_ of it all.

They ended up at that same uni bar weekly—Draco and Pansy, Blaise and Ginny, and an assortment of Potter’s crew. Potter came every time, which Draco couldn’t think too hard about. He tried not to think about Potter at all. Or, any more than was necessary, which seemed to be more and more these days. And nights, if Draco was being completely honest with himself—which he never had been good at.

This particular night sometime in November was Tequila Tuesday, and Draco had tackled the theme with aplomb. Tequila shots apparently had this salt and lime ritual that you would do for every shot. Draco absolutely loved a process, and after repeating this process several—or more, definitely more—times, Draco found himself on the dancefloor wedged between Pansy and Ginny and wiggling his body to some incredibly ridiculous songs. Yes, it was indeed hot in here, mystery maestro. His shirt was unbuttoned almost down to his navel, his lips swollen and sore from the lime, and he was completely slick with sweat. Draco knew he would be cold and absolutely would regret his outfit later but decided to ignore that. He was too giddy and dizzy and too  _everything_ to care.

Potter was over by the bartender, having a chat with Lovegood and Longbottom and Blaise. Weasley and Granger hadn’t come tonight—Granger had an exam or something in the morning. Draco missed exams. Every so often, Draco would catch Potter’s eye, and he would turn away. Draco could always feel Potter looking at him, and he wondered if Potter could feel him too.

Ginny was attempting this dance move where she moved as if she was reeling Blaise onto the dancefloor like a fish on a line, but he was pretending to ignore her. That wouldn’t last. Pansy looked like she was scouring the dancefloor for someone to grind against, and Draco felt someone take his hand.

Draco spun around and was looking into the eyes of a Muggle man his age. He had dark curly hair, large dark eyes, and a stubbled jaw. At first, Draco wanted to immediately exit the dance floor. But, nobody was looking askance at them, and Draco _wanted_ this. He hadn’t felt _liked_ in so long—he usually felt tolerated. He had forgotten what this was like, this rush that someone maybe found you attractive.

Draco moved in closer and tentatively put his hands on the bloke’s hips. Draco found himself pulled further in, and a deep voice in his ear said, “I’m Jack”. Draco honestly didn’t give a _fuck_ what his name was when Jack’s hips were doing unreal things against Draco’s. Draco wrapped his arms around Jack’s neck as they danced flush against one another. Draco could feel himself getting hard and felt flustered and embarrassed, but it all felt way too good. They swayed tightly to the music, and Jack moved his nose against Draco’s jawline, his face inching downward to Draco’s throat until Draco could feel a scrape of teeth against his neck. And now Draco was _definitely_ hard. Jack smelled like soap and sweat and lager. And it wasn't quite right, exactly, but it was nice.

Calling what they were doing _dancing_ was probably a little too charitable, but they continued for several more songs. Jack had unbuttoned Draco’s shirt completely and now that there was a lull in what was considered _good_ music to the general crowd, he started to lead Draco in the direction of the bathrooms. Draco caught Ginny’s eye, and she gave him a vaguely concerned look, and Potter was staring at him from his spot at the bar. Draco met his gaze and held it as best he could in his decidedly not sober state. Jack tugged him further towards the loo, Potter slammed his glass down on the bar top, and Draco looked away.

Draco ended up tugging his hand away and headed for the exit. He didn’t really want to see what was going to go on in the loo. Not really. Not with Jack who was handsome and smelled nice but wasn’t quite right. He didn't stop to talk to Ginny or Blaise, and definitely didn’t stop for Potter. He wanted to stand out in the cold air and sober up a little—maybe eat something. That was absolutely _amazing_ when you were done at the bar. Draco could practically smell the chips already.

The cold air was bitter against Draco’s fever-hot skin and open shirt. He’d had a jacket at one point, surely. Draco put his hand on the side of the building. He was a little drunker than he’d originally realized, and he was starting to feel a little maudlin which was rather irritating.

The door to the bar opened and Potter came out with the weirdest expression that bordered on _wounded_.

“What was that in there, Malfoy?” Maybe Potter was a homophobe. He was brought up Muggle, after all.This was the most negative thought about Muggles that Draco had allowed himself in ages. Draco felt defensive, but was also too drunk to be properly withering.

“I was having _fun_ , Potter. Dancing. Pretty sure I could have had a blow job.” Draco let his mouth pop on the last syllable. He had only mentioned oral sex for the shock value and drama. Hopefully that would scare Potter off back into the bar. He really was standing far too close.

“Is that was that was? Letting some stranger _grope_ you. In public.”

“Well, Potter, I was also hoping he would grope me in private, for your _information_.” It was a bit of a lie, and Draco was trying to not do that these days. Potter just brought it out in him. Potter brought everything out in him. The tequila made Draco feel bold and sure and he didn't even know why he was talking this way. He suddenly wasn’t feeling so maudlin anymore.

Potter made a strangled sort of noise and rubbed the palms of his hands against his face. His jawline really was a marvel. He was looking really harassed, which struck Draco as incredibly odd since _he_ was the one who just almost had it off with a Muggle in the loo, and now was half hard and outdoors practically without a shirt in _November_. Potter was looking at him very intensely.

“I’m not gay,” Potter said. Potter was so fucking bizarre, it was ridiculous.

“Potter, nobody said you were! Nobody said you had to be.” Draco didn’t know if that was what he was supposed to say, but Potter’s face changed and maybe somehow by accident Draco had said something that Potter had needed to hear. Potter took a step towards Draco and for a moment, it looked like he was going to reach out and touch him. Draco sucked in his bottom lip. It still felt raw from the lime and tasted of salt. Potter drew in a sharp breath and gave his head a shake like a dog trying to clear its waterlogged ears.

The rest of their extremely random group, that wasn’t exactly all that random anymore, poured out from the bar. Ginny looked between him and Potter and narrowed her eyes. She had a sharp look on her face that was too knowing, even though Draco didn’t _know_ what she was supposed to be _knowing_ exactly.

“Sorry for interrupting, lads,” she said and raised an eyebrow. The bint was absolutely stealing Draco’s signature look. That was not allowed. “Come on, you wankers. We’re all having a sleepover at yours, Malfoy. It’s been decided”.

Ginny Weasley was a wrecking ball of a person.

* * *

Draco was hungover. His mouth felt like it was an ancient desert where the sand tasted like tequila and poor choices. He stumbled out into the living room, where Pansy and Lovegood and Longbottom had sprawled out on the floor in front of the telly like they were camping, but with Netflix. Blaise and Ginny were apparently still _indisposed_. Draco didn’t know exactly where Potter had slept. He had gone to his room and passed out almost immediately. He didn’t even get any chips.

“Draco! Make us some tea and toast!” Pansy threw a pillow at him, and Draco was sure that wasn’t what was meant when someone called them throw pillows. Draco shot two fingers at her and wandered out into the kitchen. He was hungover. People should be making food for him.

Potter was leaning against the counter with a mug of tea wearing another bloody enormous jumper as if he had been obese in a former life. It looked worn and soft, and Draco could picture the how it would feel under his fingertips. It was awful, having Potter in his kitchen in the early morning wearing soft things.

“D’you want some tea?” Potter asked slowly, as if it wasn’t insane that he was offering Draco tea from his own kitchen. Draco nodded.

“Potter, you’re so _good_ all the time,” Draco said after Potter handed him a mug. It wasn’t exactly what he had meant to say, but he supposed it still worked in this situation too. Potter flushed and bowed his head.

“I’m really _really_ not. I’m just...me.” Potter looked embarrassed.

“You’re that too,” Draco said and proceeded to burn his mouth on his tea. This felt like a _moment_. A really important moment, and he was too hungover to completely process it. “Good doesn’t mean perfect, you know.”

Potter didn’t answer this time.

* * *

Ever since that fated Tequila Tuesday, Draco and Potter had crossed a line into new territory. Draco was coming dangerously close to _pining_ for Potter. His hair was a whirlwind, his temper was quick, and he had these soft molten insides and a capacity for _caring_ that made Draco want to jump into traffic. Once, Potter had talked so fondly about Draco’s cousin, Teddy Lupin, and the time they’d spent together over the winter holidays that Draco had actually gotten up from the table at the pub and wanked furiously in the loo. Draco was horny for Potter’s _feelings_.

He had never wanked so frequently in his entire life. He didn’t even need the Internet anymore. His imagination was far, far better.

It was after the New Year, and Draco had decided to re-evaluate his plan. He was doing well with his research, but he needed another goal. Kissing Potter was not an acceptable goal.

Draco wanted to stop being sorry. Or, rather, he wanted to stop apologizing. He would never stop being sorry, but he needed to do something about it all. He was making a new outline in the living room with his Muggle stationary—his kingdom for a Post It—when Ginny and Potter came by the flat. Ginny was, presumably, there for Blaise. Draco had no idea why Potter was there. Pansy was out with Lovegood, and Draco suspected she was being charmed by the radish earrings and Lovegood’s way of saying exactly what she was thinking at all times. Draco had thought Pansy was working on Longbottom. Maybe she was working on them both. Maybe they were working on _her_.

“Oi, Draco! Are you planning some grand heist over there? Some hostile takeover?” Draco stiffened, and Ginny laughed. “Oh, unclench yourself. I was taking the piss.” She gathered her fiery hair into a haphazard knot at the top of her head. “Blaise and I are going to watch the Magpies and the Kestrels today. You can come—I have seats from the team.” Ginny played for Holyhead.

Draco shot her a _look_ , and she rolled her eyes. They were all under the impression that he was becoming a shut-in. He wasn’t. He was busy. Ginny wandered off to find Blaise. She was always leaving him _alone_ with Potter now. Potter sat beside him on the sofa.

Ever since Draco had realized that he wanted Potter, really _really_ wanted him, he found himself alone with him more than ever. The world was conspiring against him, as usual. He couldn't construct a plan to deal with his feelings, and it was horrifically annoying.

“What _are_ you doing here?” Potter asked, as he reached for a vibrant purple note that said “CURRICULUM”.

“I’ve had to reassess my original plan. My education into all things Muggle is going brilliantly, _obviously,_ but I wanted something new to work towards. Maybe Muggle uni, but there are a whole host of things I would need to figure out for that,” Draco said, gesturing to a variety of notes stuck to the coffee table that were blue. Everything was colour-coded because Draco wasn’t an unorganized heathen.

“I also may write a book about my...experience. That’s the list in green. And maybe I’ll try and restructure the curriculum for Hogwarts. That’s a larger project, but I’ve found so many educational gaps already—” Draco stopped. Potter was looking at him with an astonished and slightly glazed look.

“You’re absolutely mental, aren’t you,” Potter said. Draco’s face felt hot.

“I’m just thorough. And I’m not going to decide today! I wanted to feel out my options. I’ve always made a lot of terrible choices. I want to do something right this time.” Draco didn't want to justify himself to Potter.

Potter shifted closer to him on the sofa, their thighs pressed together. Draco was extremely aware of the heat bleeding into his trousers. Maybe this was it—

“What did you end up doing with your wand?” Potter asked, and Draco suddenly can’t get far enough away from him. The sofa really was too small.

“What the entire fuck, Potter? I haven’t done anything with it. You gave it back. I have it. What do you mean what have I done with it.”

“I was just asking, Malfoy. Jesus. I—Christ—I don’t know! I thought you might be using it again. I was curious.”

“I don’t need it anymore,” Draco said. He thought he’d established this already.

“Sure you don’t _need_ it. I just thought—I dunno—I thought you might want to use it. That’s all.” Potter looked chastened.

“If I ever use it again, I’ll know the right moment. It hasn’t…come up yet.” Draco paused, and the air felt thick and tense. “Look, what if—what if all I’ve done is just shallow and circumstantial? If I go back to using magic, what if it...undoes everything up until this point? It’s been a lot, and it’s been _mine_ , and I don’t want to lose that.” This was the first time he’d admitted out loud why he hadn’t been using his wand now that he had it back, even though he wanted to, even though he could _feel_ it here in the flat every second of every day. Everything was easier when he’d had nothing to lose. Some things were just too much to handle now that he had something he felt was worth keeping.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Potter was looking at him now—properly looking right at him.

“Don’t worry, Potter. I’ll deal with it. Eventually.”

They were silent for a little while Potter started folding and refolding a pink Post It. Draco just didn’t know what to say.

Potter, of course, was the one to break the ice. “D’you—er—do you maybe want to come to mine? Sometime?” Potter’s eyes were wide and expectant, but he also looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. It was a good look on him and everything was an absolute nightmare.

“Yeah. Yes. Sure.” The room felt fuzzy and Draco thought he could feel magic crackling around him, although maybe that was just adrenaline. Did this count as making a good choice? Draco couldn’t be certain.

* * *

 “Draco’s going into the lion’s den!” Blaise had never seemed so excited, and Draco decided he really needed to stop with the dreadful Gryffindor-related wordplay.

“Yes, darling. I wish I could say this is a surprise, but it really isn’t. You two have been acting very…close lately,” Pansy said, taking a sip of wine. They were drinking and watching some reality television programme about rich Muggles who lived in Draco’s neighbourhood. Draco wasn’t sure how _real_ it was, but it was very dramatic and paired well with a Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

“You can both shut up. It’s not a big deal. He comes here all the time with _your_ crowd,” Draco said, and continued before Pansy could insist that they were his crowd too, now. “It’s just Potter.”

“Draco, it’s never _just Potter_ with you. When has it ever been _just Potter_?” Draco absolutely did not appreciate Pansy’s tone.

“And, I don’t know if I should tell you this—but Gin told me that Potter is really interested in what you’ve been up to. _Really_ interested. Obsessed was the word she actually used. I guess ever since he found out about your endeavour, he can’t shut up about it. It’s driving them all mental.” Blaise shrugged, as if what he was saying wasn’t incredibly ridiculous.

“Do you two hear yourselves? It’s just Potter. I’m only going to his courage-infested hovel because he invited me, and I am just very intrepid and naturally curious. It’s like field research. How the other half lives.” Draco could feel that he was rambling a little.

This was nothing. It maybe felt like something, but it was absolutely nothing. He could admit that he found Potter fit, although never out loud and never to Blaise and Pansy. And maybe Potter felt something that was close to reciprocal, but this invitation wasn’t about that. Potter was just trying to be _hospitable_. Probably.

Draco was going to take some time and choose an appropriate outfit anyway. Just in case. Being prepared was paramount if you were going to be intrepid, after all.

* * *

Draco arrived on Potter’s doorstep wearing a dark green velvet blazer and an expression of what he hoped looked like nonchalance and indifference.

Potter’s house was massive and dark and seemed to be crumbling on the outside, just a little. Draco could feel wards and protective spells swirling around him, heavy and powerful. He hadn’t been exposed to this much magic in a long time. This suddenly felt like the worst idea he’d maybe ever had, and not for the reasons he’d originally thought. Of course, Potter’s house would be magical.

Draco knocked on the heavy door, and Potter swung it open almost immediately.

“Sorry—I knew you were here. The wards.” Potter ran a hand through his hair. “Come in! I made some food? I don’t know if you’re hungry, and it’s not exactly an actual meal time, but...I—” Potter seemed to be completely losing his grasp on the English language.

“Let’s break bread, Potter.” Draco stepped inside. Potter’s house was...a lot. It was enormous and dark and it seemed oddly familiar. It was clearly old, and the wallpaper was peeling.

“The house is a bit of a work in progress. I have a house elf, but it was weird living here with him, so I loaned him to Hogwarts to work there. This was—the house belonged to Sirius. Sirius Black.” Draco felt frozen on the spot. He knew now why the house had seemed familiar. He had been here before as a child. Draco didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. “I guess, the house is kind of my project? Among other things.”

Potter lead Draco into the kitchen. He had apparently made some soup that was bubbling on the stove, and the air was humid with the smell of thyme. There was a huge pair of glass doors which lead to a garden area that Potter clearly had under some sort of stasis or greenhouse charm, given that there was a lot of greenery and it was currently February. In contrast to the general gloom and grime of what Draco had seen of Potter’s house, the kitchen and garden were both obviously well-tended. Draco spotted the inflatable pool out in the garden that Ginny had mentioned months ago. It stood out, all pink and blue and shiny plastic in the sea of green.

Potter and Draco literally broke bread and ate chicken soup, and Potter told Draco all about his garden. Longbottom had been helping him, and Potter liked the physicality of it all—being able to see the progress and the results of how he had spent his time. Creating something. Draco tried very hard not to focus on Potter’s _physicality_.

After they ate, Potter dragged Draco across the house and stopped in front of an enormous tapestry.

“This is what I wanted to show you. I didn’t know if maybe you had seen this before. You—well, you’re on there. And your mum and dad. Sirius was on there, but they blasted him off. I thought Teddy might be on there, but he isn't. I don’t know exactly how the magic works.” Potter had been living with part of Draco’s family tree in his own house. It was beyond comprehension.

Draco traced his fingers along the threads. There had been one like this in the Manor, except with the Malfoy side of the family instead of the Blacks. He felt the familiar burn of tears behind his eyes. He loved this and hated this, and it really was a lot. Potter’s ridiculous green gaze was pinning him in place, watching every motion of his fingertips against the fabric.

Draco turned to look at Potter. They had been standing shoulder to shoulder, and now Potter turned too, and they were chest to chest. Draco swiped the back of his hand against his eyes, and let it fall to his side.

Potter grabbed Draco’s hand, running his thumb over the spot on the back where Draco had wiped his eyes. Over his tears.

“I—can I—,” Potter started.

Draco didn't wait for Potter to finish before he closed the gap between them. This was the moment. Potter’s lips were chapped and hot and moved tentatively against Draco’s. Potter pulled Draco in closer, pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh. He was so warm. Potter was always so _warm_. Draco ran his fingers over Potter’s chest, gently touching the soft fabric of his shirt the way he had been touching the threads of the tapestry.

Potter stepped back a bit. “This is the second time I've kissed someone who was crying.” He started to look a little hysterical.

Draco frowned. “I wasn’t completely crying. Also, I don’t think that’s what you say to someone after you’ve been snogging them. It’s a bit rude to point out someone’s...vulnerabilities like that. Merlin.”

“I don’t know how to feel about you like this. I don’t know what this is. I’ve never...with a bloke, I mean. I didn’t know I could—” Potter was having an existential crisis, Draco was sure.

“I’m fairly certain you can do whatever you want as long as the other person wants you to. Listen to me. I’m very smart,” Draco said to him, even though he was far from an expert on the subject. But, sexual preference was less of a _thing_ to wizards in general. He told Potter what he thought was true, but also what might be comforting if Draco was feeling strange about kissing another man. To Draco, kissing Potter had felt strange, but it had also felt a little bit right. Inevitable, maybe.

This seemed to galvanize Potter into action, and Draco found himself being simultaneously kissed and pushed backwards towards an extremely ancient and dusty blue easy chair.

Draco tried to spin them around so that Potter was leaning against the arm of the chair. He leaned in to bite at Potter’s earlobe.

“Potter, this is new to me. Very new. I haven’t _done_ much of anything,” Draco whispered. Potter’s breath was hot against the side of Draco’s neck. “Lucky for you,” Draco continued in what he hoped was a throaty kind of way, “I am an extremely quick study.” He moved in between Potter’s open legs and they snogged furiously. Potter’s tongue—his fucking _tongue—_ was in Draco’s mouth. Draco was feeling very hard and very flustered and this was _very_ different from drunkenly grinding against a stranger in a bar.

Potter’s hands were trailing down Draco’s back, over the jacket he’d yet to discard. It was too hot, and Draco started to shrug it off.

“Leave the jacket. Who even has a fucking _velvet_ jacket?” Potter sounded bewildered before he leaned into Draco’s mouth again. Potter’s hands ran along the waistband of Draco’s trousers and began to untuck his shirt.

Draco moved his hand down to the front of Potter’s trousers. He had to know—was Potter hard too? Draco was feeling very intrepid, indeed.

Potter was hot and hard against him, and when Draco pressed the heel of his hand against Potter’s cock, Potter groaned and arched into the touch. Draco was rubbing against Potter’s leg as he stroked Potter through his trousers. Potter was fully squeezing—actually _squeezing—_ Draco’s arse. Feeling daring, Draco started to unbutton Potter’s trousers. They weren’t even kissing anymore—just breathing hotly into each other’s mouths while their hands squeezed and rubbed and touched. Potter made Draco bold.

Draco pulled Potter’s cock unceremoniously from his trousers and started to stroke him roughly, running his thumb over the head the way that he liked to do to himself. Potter moaned softly, pushing his hips up into Draco’s fist, and Draco felt very encouraged. His own cock was straining hard against the front of his trousers. He wished he had chosen a slightly looser pair. Hindsight.

“I—uh—” Potter started to say against Draco’s mouth. He then stilled against Draco’s hand, his cock pulsing, and Draco could feel Potter spilling over his fist. Draco didn’t want to tear his mouth away to look. Potter pulled away and shoved his own hand down Draco’s trousers, the other hand still firmly squeezing his arse, and in ten seconds, Draco was coming as well—right _there—_ right into his £300 trousers and gasping into Potter’s unruly nest of hair.

“Potter, so help me. If you got your come on this jacket, you absolutely will be the one to bring it to the cleaners.”

* * *

 Fooling around with Potter was as exhilarating as flying, but there were also these soft moments of _chat_ in between, when they were half-dressed and sated, the air thick like caramel and the words slow and thoughtful.

“I’m not ready to deal with Weasley and Granger,” Draco said to Potter one afternoon in April. They were lying on his sofa, and Draco had his head in Potter’s lap in a strange moment of affection. “Not yet, anyway. I can’t face them properly. Pub nights are...fine. Bearable. We never interact directly. I know that I’m different and I’m learning, but I’m not ready to have to prove it.”

“Well, I’m not ready to deal with the Aurors, and to tell them no—that I don’t want to do that with my life. I'm not ready to deal with being a disappointment.”

“Potter, as if you of all people could be a disappointment. I mean, your clothing choices are always a bit of a disappointment, especially since you’re so annoyingly fit.” Potter grinned at Draco’s compliment, and ran his blunt fingertips through Draco’s hair. “Just try and do something that makes you happy and proud. Or do nothing, if that’s what you want.”

“Says the bloke who constantly is planning and listing things.”

“I won’t apologize for being properly prepared, you impulsive twat.” Draco was working on getting into a Muggle uni to study history and literature, and he was a little more on edge than usual, even for him.

“You are different though. You know that, right? We couldn’t—I couldn’t if you weren’t.”

“I know I am, Potter. You don’t need to voice your _approval_. My being different is not an accident. I’ve been working on it, as you well know.” Draco didn't need Potter’s approval. He didn't want to need it.

“I just wanted you to hear it. Sometimes we need to hear things.” Potter was such a prat. He was always saying things like this that made absolutely no sense and all the sense in the world.

Draco sits up and turns to face Potter. “Okay. I have decided. We’re going to do something, and I absolutely _need_ you to not be so Potterish about it.”

“Potterish? What—”

“Shut up. Come with me.” Draco grabbed Potter’s arm, dragged him bodily into the bedroom and pushed him onto the bed.

“Potter, we’re going to have sex. This can’t come as a surprise to you. I feel like the numerous orgasms over the past few weeks or so would have served as some sort of precursor.” Potter seemed to choke on his own saliva a bit. Draco soldiered on. “I’ve not done this. With anyone. But, I’m nothing if not prepared. And motivated.” He opened his bedside table and produced lubricant and condoms. Potter turned an absolutely brilliant shade of burgundy.

“How can you just _say_ these things? Jesus, Draco.” Potter looked as if he was having extreme difficulty managing the situation.

“Don’t you want to?” To Draco, this seemed like the natural progression. They had been spending more and more time together. They had done almost everything _but_. Draco had Googled all of the necessary precautions, and he had watched several very informative videos of the more erotic variety. He felt ready for this, but maybe Potter wasn’t.

“I want to. _Merlin_. I really really do. I just—I want to wait a little longer. Is that okay? I know we’re not—I just need some more time, yeah?” Potter was so honest and handsome sometimes it was hard for Draco to look at him.

“Did you shower this morning?” Draco asked.

“What the fuck? Yes? Like, an hour ago, before I came over.” Potter looked at him as if he had sprouted wings and started dancing a jig.

“Okay, well if we’re not going to have _penetrative_ sex, is it okay that I try something?” Draco ignored the way Potter started to cough when he’d said penetrative.

“Uh, yeah—”. Draco pushed Potter back onto the bed.

“Tell me if something isn’t okay. The internet is very informative, and I saw something I want to try. It looked...enjoyable.” Draco slid off Potter’s repulsive grey joggers. He could see the outline of Potter’s cock through them the entire time Potter had been here, and it was absolutely maddening. Potter’s cock was mostly hard—thick and ruddy against his belly.

“You’ve given me a blowjob before, Malfoy. It was pretty good. I was there.” Potter was weirdly smug for a bloke whose cock was hanging out and saying hello. Also, _pretty good_? Draco would have to come back to that later. He made a mental note.

Draco was lying flat on his stomach. He pushed Potter’s knees apart and his hips up, sliding a pillow underneath and taking in the sight of his flushed cock, the swell of his balls and his arsehole. Draco leaned forward and licked a stripe from Potter’s balls to the tip of his cock. Potter flung the back of his arm over his eyes, his head pushed as far back as it could go into one of Draco’s pillows.

And then, Draco moved lower.

“Jesus, Malfoy! Warn a bloke!” Draco had swiped his tongue directly over Potter’s arsehole. Potter’s cock was unbelievably hard now. Draco paused, and Potter didn’t tell him to stop, so he continued. He stiffened his tongue and ran it around Potter’s rim. Potter had one hand over his face, and the other tangled in the sheets and holding on for dear life. He bit one of Potter’s arse cheeks and then began licking and sucking him in earnest. He wanted to see if he could get his tongue _inside_. The sounds Potter was making were absolutely beyond obscene, and Draco’s own cock was leaking on the sheets.

This was completely new territory, but Draco stopped being surprised that Potter was letting him carry on after hearing the noises being made above him. He felt very _motivated_. Draco kissed and sucked and licked and basically _fucked_ Potter with his tongue, fisting Potter’s cock until he was flushed and sweaty from his chest to the roots of his hair. Draco rubbed his own cock against the sheets, seeking the friction and not caring about the mess. It went on for what seemed like ages, and Draco’s mouth was getting quite tired when—

“Fu—” Potter started, and came hard, his arsehole clenching around Draco’s tongue. Draco sat up and gave his cock a few more pulls and then came all over the sheets next to where Potter was lying still and trying to catch his breath. Draco rolled onto his back and tried to avoid any wet patches.

“Three cheers for research!” Potter managed weakly, and Draco smacked him with a pillow.

* * *

 Draco had found the moment. Almost exactly one year after he had started this mess, Draco was ready to deal with his biggest task of all. He had found a flat, become an expert with the computer, and was having it off with Harry Potter as often as he could. He loved everything he knew about the Muggle world, and even had several lengthy conversations without breaking the Statute. He was heading to uni in the fall after some help from Granger that he had finally been able to ask for. And it was enough, but he still wasn’t done.

Draco knew that nobody was ever really _done_. If you were done, you were dead.

Potter was stubborn about the wand. About once every couple of weeks he would ask Draco about them. It was maddening, but that was the tradeoff for spending time with the man attached to that glorious cock. Draco was rather attached to the man these days.

It was a bright morning in June, the day before Draco’s birthday, and he decided that this was the moment. He was not going to go one more year without dealing with this.

He grabbed the shoe box from under his bed and sits down on the edge. He knew that Pansy and Blaise and Ginny and Potter were downstairs watching telly, but the air in his room felt very still, and he can’t hear anything over a slight buzzing in his ears.

His wand was there, dark and gleaming, and Draco held it in his hand. It felt warm and alive, like it was a living organism wriggling in his grip. It was frightening how much he had missed this. But Potter had been right—no matter what, he would never and could never slip back into the way things were before. His life had been dark and hateful and dishonest, no matter if he’d realized it at the time or not.

And it was impossible to live your life in the dark when you were spending time with Potter, who was so good and so bright. Even if it embarrassed him to hear it, and even if he was a little confused and untethered too, it didn't make it untrue.

Draco ventured downstairs, wand in hand, to face his unlikely group of friends.

“I’m going out to take care of some things.” He wanted to keep this as vague as possible. Everyone was staring at the wand in his hand as if he’d sprouted some sort of tentacle and was trying to pretend he hadn't.

Potter rose from the sofa and approached Draco. “I’m coming with you.” Potter is so matter-of-fact that Draco’s knee-jerk reaction was to dig his heels in and start a row about it.

“I don’t need you to come anywhere with me, Potter. I have this under control.”

“And what exactly is _this_ Draco?” Pansy interjects from her spot on the sofa, eyes darting between him and Potter.

“Nothing Pans. Just something I have to handle on my own.”

“Malfoy,” Potter started again, and put a hand on Draco’s shoulder, “you might not need me, but—it’s okay to want me, y’know?” Potter was so handsome that it was really unfair,

“Fine. Merlin, you’re a piece of work, Potter.” They all were pieces of work, really. Nobody else interrupted to ask a question, even though Draco was sure that this exchange made no sense to anyone but him and Potter.

Potter and Draco stepped outside, and Draco lead them to an alley a few blocks away.

“I’m going to Apparate us, and I haven’t done this in a long time and I’m nervous, but I need to be the one to do it.” Draco felt certain that he would be carted off to Azkaban for real this time if he splinched Harry Potter. Potter’s eyes are strong and true, and his face is open. He gripped Draco’s forearm and Draco _focused_.

They landed with a pop in a wooded area, and Draco was immediately sick in some nearby shrubbery. After getting his bearings, Draco could see the gates of the Manor and further into the grounds where everything looked overgrown and uncared for. Draco didn’t know what he would find inside, but Potter was standing square-shouldered and sure. Draco didn’t need him there, but it did feel okay to want him.

Potter bumped his hip against Draco’s and shot him a grin. He was such a _lad_ sometimes. “Are you ready then?” Potter asked, and their hands brushed. Draco linked his fingers with Potter’s.

He would never really be done, and he would handle this the best that he could. He was dealing with it.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I left this sort of open ended because I might come back and write Draco dealing with the Manor, or his adventures at uni. And I think I might want to come back and write some little fics about Draco learning about Muggle things in this universe when the mood strikes. 
> 
> The song in the bar is "Hot in Herre" by Nelly. The reality show they watch is Made in Chelsea and it's glorious.
> 
> I wanted this to be Draco's POV only. Harry is going through his own Stuff clearly, but I wanted this to be Draco's journey separate and alongside Harry's. Just something I wanted to try.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://whiskyandwildflowers.tumblr.com). Send me prompts for Draco's adventures in the Muggle world!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Year of Non-Magical Thinking [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17547791) by [semperfiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona)




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